


Half Lies

by finlyfoe



Series: The R.E.M. collection [1]
Category: Homeland
Genre: Early Beginnings, F/M, Gen, Happy Ending, Inner Dialogue, One Night Stands, Prequel, Self-Doubt, Smut, s.2
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2016-06-05
Updated: 2016-07-26
Packaged: 2018-07-12 10:26:47
Rating: Mature
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 3
Words: 5,660
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/7099087
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/finlyfoe/pseuds/finlyfoe
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Ch. 1: A one-night stand at a parking-lot<br/>Ch. 2: Two years later - PQ meets CM while working on the Brody/Nazir-case - why does she seem slightly familiar...?<br/>Ch. 3: Quinn remembers their chance previous encounter but Carrie doesn't. Or does she?</p>
            </blockquote>





	1. A One-Night Stand

**Author's Note:**

> I stumbled across this archive and was so amused and enchanted and taken in.... so I thought I should try to give something back. Thing is: I write, but have never done any fanfic writing, let alone in English... and I am also nervous wondering will I get the formatting and tagging and uploading and stuff right....???
> 
> Hope you enjoy, nobody feels offended, feedback would be great-

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Here we go again. Carrie Mathison at the liquor store. In the mood for a pick-up. The only other customer is a dark haired guy with very blue eyes and goofy shoes...
> 
> An answer to a prompt way back: What if Carrie and Quinn had met way before s.2 - on a one-night stand?

So. Here we go again. Carrie Mathison at the liquor store. In the mood for a pick-up. Oh, cut the crap: In desperate need for a shag.

The shrink Maggie made her see explained it oh so convincingly. Her – Carrie – not being able to let somebody in. To allow closeness. While at the same time, uh, how did she put it, longing for it. Now and again, at least. She implied, of course, regular meds and regular therapy would _settle_ it.

Ph. Pompous bitch. Nothing that needs to be settled. Just an itch that needs scratching.

Carrie eyes around.

Hard luck. Only one other customer in here, hesitantly strolling along. Tonight she'd be into a suit-and-tie-worn-with-nonchalance-guy who likes to take over command. That fella seems so unfocused. He wears a shirt, some non-descript dark trousers, goofy shoes. Tall and lean (good), dark hair (so-so).  
But he'll have to do. The only other available male right now is the check-out guy, the spitting image of a sumo-wrestler, but even if he were a former Chippendale, she would not risk a hook-up, this being her favourite spot for late night needs, no good endangering that.

Chances are, if the shirt grabs a six-pack, he's out, off to watch a football game or baseball or whatever with his homeys.

But, lucky her, he heads for the whiskey rack. Stops in his tracks, stares at the bottles. Dozens of different brands and sizes.

“Fuck me”, he mutters, mouth half-opened, eyes wide. As if totally overwhelmed. Overwhelmed as in “Oh my God I didn't know they have so many brands of Whiskey on this planet.” Which is kind of cute but also ridiculous. He's not 18 anymore, he looks American, he sounds American, it's not as if he was from Saudi-Arabia. Maybe from Salt Lake City, she jokes inwardly and steps up, a self-assured smile on her face.  “Need any help?”

Nice chat-up-line. Inviting, not too original, not too direct. Has done the trick before. He gives her a side glance. Wow. Not bad, not bad at all. Very blue eyes. Early thirties tops, stubble, dimples, cheek-bones. He could do with a hair-cut though.

Her smile deepens. He reacts to it, more a grin than a smile, it doesn't reach his eyes. But she knows he got her message as he says: “What exactly would you like to help me with?”

Cheeky.

She busies herself with studying the labels, then turns to him all smiley and flirty. “You got company or is it a treat just for yourself?”

“Yet to be seen.” He holds her gaze.

Carrie now looks him up and down shamelessly. He is either not aware of how attractive he is (and how irresistible he would be with a few basic improvements - starting with the shoes). Or he does it on purpose, makes himself look less impressive, for whatever weird and shady reasons.

“Actually, you look like a Talisker guy to me”, she says, “middle of the road, not too flashy but with a certain distinction.”

He eyes her, clearly amused, and reaches for the Talisker.

“So we finish it at your place?”, he goes.

Shit, she doesn't wear the ring. The protective ring. The "shag-me-but-don't-come-closer-my-hubby-waits-at-home"-ring. The “sorry not at my place”-ring. No way she lets anybody intrude her personal space, blue eyes and dimples or not. So she shakes her head and looks him straight into the eyes: “Your place, Talisker guy.”

Something clouds his eyes, or at least that's what she thinks. She's not sure though, the lights in the shop are dim and she's not exactly concentrating on his face right now. His shirt, two buttons open, a glimpse at his chest, all smooth and, yeah, well defined. It gives her an ache. But-

“Can't do that. Pity.” And with that, he puts the Talisker back, grabs a bottle of Bushmill's and walks away.

So, he's afraid of his little missus. Cheating bastard. But she won't let him off the hook that easy. There is nobody else around, and she has already invested. Time, smiles, banter. She goes for the Talisker herself and has to jog a few steps to beat him at the cashier's. So he can't walk away.

He lets her pass without making any eye-contact. She's somewhat annoyed: Does he think she is embarrassed? About a little banter? What a prick!

Still she doesn't walk off after she's handed over her dollarbills and received her paper-wrapped bottle. She is Carrie Mathison, and she gets her way, full stop. She simply hangs around at the exit and figures out, where the CC-TV-cams are. Precisely: Theblind spot.

As he walks out, she steps up to him as if they had an appointment. He shoots her an unreadable side glance.

“So?”, he goes, “where are we heading now?”

He sure isn't one to beat around the bush. She smiles wordlessly and puts her arm around his hip. Feels good, and it's easier to steer him towards the back of the shop. Towards the blind spot. She looks up and feels all aroused and excited by now. Will he go for it, for a shag against the shopwall? She opens her bottle, takes a sip, hands it over to him. He takes a big swig, hands the bottle back. Looks at her exspectantly. His eyes shine, an alluring mixture of amusement, cool observation and something dark and wild in it, and a wave of hot desire rushes through her. She puts down the bottle and jumps at him, goes for a frantic, tongue-tying kiss, all saliva and desire, one hand tearing at his hair, the other going for his belt.

No tenderness here, neither asked nor required. He grabs her hair and continues the kissing part, the hot and messy kissing part. She manages a “fuck me hard and good, will you”, as if her intentions weren't clear by now. That should be the moment when his eyes get misty, desire and arousal clouding his vision, but she doesn't get a chance to check, he holds her head while ferociously kissing and licking her throat and her cleavage. While undoing his pants, he produces a condom out of nowhere, tearing the package (well, that takes breaking up the kissing, he holds the wrap between his teeth and rips it open, than back to lipservice) and getting his prick covered up all safe and sound. _Looks like that guy is a regular at this, I mean, how come he had the rubber at hand? How come he can do it so deftly, single-handedly?_ , Carrie wonders, getting even more wound up.

He breaks away and grabs her, turns her around fast so she faces the wall. Carrie moans. She is all wet and ready and _dying_ for a fuck. She feels his hand holding her neck, the other tearing down her clothes and it is exactly what she needs. His prick pushing inside her with no exchange of words or glances, not asking for her ok. This could be so fucking annoying, so fucking degrading, getting banged by this guy who doesn't even try to look into her eyes, but she sighs with pleasure. He doesn't let her touch him, he holds her at bay, the anonymity of it, the feeling of being used and-

She loses is. Not even five minutes of getting fucked at the parking lot, face against a fucking wall, and she groans and heaves and spasms, and as he puts his hand over her mouth to stifle her noises, she comes even harder.

She's so enveloped in this fucking great orgasm she doesn't notice he's there too. Not that obviously over the brink like she is, all glorious climax, but, _yeah, it's a release. No shit._

It takes them a few moments to catch their breaths. To return to the world.

This right now is the moment things tend to become awkward. When the guys get soft and start the name-and-phone-number-thing. Carrie knows she should turn around and give him a small smile. A girlie smile, some icing for the hurt to come. Handing out fake names and fake phone-numbers.

But she can't. He keeps her fixed, her face against the wall like she is some fucking criminal, not that he might lecture her on her rights right now. Oh god, did she just get fucked by a cop? – His fixing her should make her angry or scared and would send her into a flying rage under any other circumstances - but it's different when sex is involved. This sort of domination game gives her the shivers. The good ones. He manhandling her starts another lurch in the stomach, another hot flash through her private parts. Shit, she wouldn't mind a second go straightaway!

He holds her for some more seconds, still at a safe distance, then all of a sudden he steps up to her, real close, chest to back, flesh on flesh if they were naked (which they aren't, no time for that, removal of the essentials had to do) and takes a deep breath.

That's all. No movements, no words, no after-play.

He inhales her scent. _She is so fucking beautiful. And totally crackers. Shit, she will get hurt one day, picking up the next best guy to get fucked at a parking lot.  
_ None of his business though. They will never meet again.

And with that thought, the man soon to be known as Peter Quinn, still taking in Carrie Mathison in all her afterglow, zips up swiftly with one hand, then, for a fraction of a second his lips touch her neck, the only bare spot available.

Next thing, he grabs his Bushmill's bottle from the floor and walks away without looking back.

He takes a detour or two before he returns to his place. Not very likely anyone would follow, but … _deformation professionelle_.

Carrie puts up her panties and straightens her hair. The smell of sex still lingers in the air and makes her shiver. The cap of the bottle somehow got lost in the dark, doesn't matter, she'll just have to finish that one soon. For now, she's more than content to go back to her car and drive to her place. On her own, as always, but all serene and easy.


	2. The guy running things

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Two years later.
> 
> Peter Quinn on a new assignment, opens the file. Holy shit. An all-to-familiar redhead grins at him. Congressman Brody...  
> Estes hands him another picture.  
> “She might mess this up. One of ours. Carrie Mathison. Keep your guard while you deal with her.”  
> Quinn looks at the blonde girl. Something about her seems slightly familiar - could he know her?

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I never considered writing this, even when Frangipani Flower and Cheesecake97 encouraged a little something about the guy running things.... But I somehow needed a break from battered post s.5-Quinn and this chapter sort of wrote itself. Have fun.

“Sir, this is Peter Quinn, the soldier you asked for. Peter - David Estes, chief-in-command.”

Dar Adal keeps the introduction short and formal, clearly eager to head off asap on another assignment. Anything else is to be negotiated between the two of them, Peter will keep him posted.-  
Estes and Quinn shake hands, Estes keeping the grip just a little longer than necessary, all the while looking the younger man straight into the eyes. It is a trick though, Estes looks at a point just above the eyes, in the middle of the other’s forehead, much easier to give serious stares this way and your opposite is hellishly impressed.  
Not Peter Quinn though. He has learned about that kind of bullshit at black ops training. He keeps a polite but perfectly neutral expression.

“The target is a terrorist who infiltrated our society in an unprecedented way. You observe and keep your distance until I give the order, then act swiftly as specified.”

Estes takes a seat. The younger man waits to be asked to sit down. Estes doesn’t pay attention, the soldier keeps standing. Estes throws a file on the table, now realizing the guy is waiting for his command and snarls a “take a seat and look at the dossier. You have to memorize it, it may not leave this room.” Funny, these guys look so un-soldier-like, haircut and all, designed to blend in, but they still have this military behavior pattern, he thinks…

“Thank you, Sir.”

Quinn opens the file. Holy shit. An all-to-familiar redhead grins at him. Congressman Brody. He was all over the news, war hero retrieved…- He doesn’t give away the slightest sign of surprise though. A matter of professional honor.

Out of his jacket Estes pulls another, smaller envelope, and takes out a photo.

“She’s the one who might mess this up. One of ours. Carrie Mathison. Keep your guard while you deal with her. She suspected him early on, fucked him literally, got fucked by him, I tell you, the things she pulled… she is crazy.”

“Sounds like it”, Quinn replies noncommittally and looks at the blonde girl. Something about her seems slightly familiar - could he know her?

“Yeah. Literally crazy. Bipolar. Her report is in Brody’s file. Keep out of her way, she is trouble.”

“So why is she in at all?”

“She knows the target best. And she can be brilliant - at times.”

Quinn nods silently and keeps on reading. Something in Estes’ words made him take a mental note: “check on personal connection Estes - Carrie”.  
He feels Estes watching him. He has no problem with that.

Her report on Brody reads like something straight out of a writer’s notebook. Putting up surveillance off-record, obsessing about the guy, ending up at a mental institution… He takes another look at her picture… have they met? He still is not sure. Maybe he saw her or a look-a-like on one of his observations and started to fantasize. He does that sometimes, to keep himself entertained during long hours sitting in cars and waiting. Picks out a passer-by, attaches a name, a profession, hobbies, family-status, favorite sex-position (yeah, that one too. Best part of it.) Nothing to ever tell Dar Adal or anyone on the team obviously.  

“You are to lead the surveillance team on Brody, officially reporting to Saul Berenson who is not, under no circumstances, to know anything about our agreement here. Keep me posted on a daily basis. We have to track Abu Nazir, Brody is our possible link. As soon as we have Nazir -” a small gesture, hand across the throat, says it all. “Do you need any special equipment?”

“No thank you, Sir, I am all covered.”  
Sounds like a piece of cake.

 

It takes about half a day for the hitman-in-disguise to hear all about how Carrie has been sleeping around. People love to gossip, at your hairdresser’s as well as at the C.I.A.. The thing is, she still is respected, although the guys-sleeping-around-are-virile, girls-sleeping-around-are-sluts-attitude pretty much prevails. Which proves she must be awesome. He will not be making a pass though. Not because of Estes’  warning. Don’t have your honey where you make your money - he is adamant on this. No screwing around at work, it is highly unprofessional and Peter Quinn considers himself to be a top professional. More professional than David Estes obviously who had Carrie Mathison wreck his marriage. Yeah, didn’t he know it, couldn’t he feel the tension, the vibes in Estes’  voice…?

Two weeks into surveillance Peter Quinn still has no idea whether they might have met before. He and Carrie that is. He’s having a great time. He enjoys being part of a team, a change to his usual routine of sitting around on his own for hours, days, sometimes weeks.  
He loves Carrie’s pissed-off-pout whenever he is around. He does his best to fuel her dislike without being outright obnoxious. There’s nothing so entertaining like a little banter. And she goes for it, every time. If he wants Indian food, she insists on Greek. Suits him fine, he is not picky. The best thing is: He knows so much about her while she has no idea about him. The real him. The shit he makes up for her! - he feels like playacting, something he might have tried in another life… So to her he is a well-off kid from Philadelphia, Harvard degree and all, a spoilt brat, cock-sure and hellishly annoying. Yeah, he might have been that in another life… To her he is an analyst, a boring desk-sitter, what a joke!  
He is aware this game should not go too far, he’ll be in trouble if she gets second thoughts. Although, in a way… it would be … interesting to be the object of her obsession. In lieu of Brody. Fucking Brody. He detests the guy.

He has given up on his musings where they might have met. He and Carrie, that is.

Until one night at the surveillance desk… Carrie going maverick, sort of. Taking Brody to a motel and getting laid. They all listen in. Saul, Virgil, Galves, silent Max. And Peter Quinn, the guy running things. Presumably.

Quinn hasn't been in a good mood for quite some time.  
Maybe it is due to the painkillers he feeds on, they perforate his stomach, causing constant pain. Pathetic, pain induced by painkillers… but what can he do, he is on a mission. No point in staying in hospital just because of a little gut-shot.  
It definitely has to do with Carrie becoming a constant nuisance, it was fun to begin with but it starts getting annoying, dangerous even. God the night she met Brody at that motel bar, running after him and calling him out so they had to go in and take him in custody! The only plan she is willing to stick to is fucking-Carrie-Mathisons-own-improvised fucking-improvisation!  
So yeah, he is pissed off and in a bad mood and her Brody-obsession starts to wear him down. God, how she fussed about his bad-cop-scene… she is delusional, she clearly is, didn’t she get why he did it? It worked, didn’t it? The fuss they make about two drops of blood and a tiny hole in a terrorist’s hand… And how she thinks it worked because she’s so fucking brilliant and Brody wax in her hands, not even taking into account his part in it…. His mistake, he took her for one of the guys but it seems after all she is just a volatile pussy… And how is he to hold her in check if fucking Saul overrules half of his decisions…  
Yeah, great, so they all listen in on her fucking a terrorist, it’s mean but it serves her right, maybe it’s good for something, maybe it will damage her standing for good…  he is so fed up with her…

Carrie’s moans and cries vibrate through the room. Here they sit, a mostly male staff, keeping up pretense. All perfectly normal, can I bring you a coffee-like. But hey, no matter how disgusting or wrong it might be: Listening in on people making love or just going through the motions provokes a physical reaction, it is a trigger, Pawlow’s dog, the animal within showing up. The porn industry knows it, they live on it. You listen in, you get aroused.  
Quinn knows how to keep the arousal at bay, another thing you learn at black ops training, but this here is really bad. He feels touchy and embarrassed and worn-out and a hardon coming on and with fucking Carrie's _noises_ all over the room, the memory comes back in a flash. The liquor store - the whiskey rack - the parking lot. He inside her, holding her at bay, making her come in a flash… Fuck, she was gorgeous! Fuck, it was sick! _And so he was right after all - she would get herself hurt. Fucking a terrorist! Fucking the adulterous head of the C.I.A.!_  
He is mortified. Tries to fight it off with the one feeling he feels safe with, the one which seems appropriate for a guy like him. Anger. He turns up the volume, more Carrie-porn in their ears, he shouts at Saul about a fifth-grade delusional getting laid, fuck, he knows he will remember this scene when he takes down Brody. Fucking Brody… at least he sounds like a good lay.-

_Better than me? She didn’t remember me…  
Fuck off asshole, you didn’t remember her either. The whole situation was - _

In the surveillance room, Saul turns off the volume-

and assassin-in-disguise Peter Quinn, furious and wound up, sends a silent prayer to the heavens he doesn’t believe in to keep _her_ forever and ever from realizing they had met before.


	3. Awkward

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Two years after a one-night stand at a parking-lot, a few weeks after they started co-working on the Brody/Nazir-case, Quinn remembers their chance previous encounter but Carrie doesn't.  
> Or does she?

III.

“So you enjoyed yourselves, ha?”  
Carrie, arms crossed, eyes flashing, angry pout, blocks Quinn’s way. The two of them are the only early birds at the office. Quinn, coffee-mug in hand, gives her an innocent to friendly “I-have-no-clue-what-you’re-talking-about”-glance.

“Listening in on Brody and me - must have been great, right-“

 “Yeah, by the sound of it…. “

 “You lousy inhibited nitwit, how would you like it if I listen in on you and your ER nurse?”

 “Why would you - she is no terrorist.”

She rolls her eyes.  
There is a mischievous glitter in his eyes.  “I can set up a threesome, if you’re so inclined.”

She stares at him, then half-grins . “You are pretty mouthy for an analyst!”

“Just kidding… You wanna get even? What about a field experiment. The easiest way to get to know my range of noises on intimate encounters. We have-” he looks at his watch -  “another 20 minutes before Virgil shows up so if we start right away…”

Carrie’s expression - amused, exasperated, dumb-struck - turns to wilfulness.

“OK”, she goes and licks her lips, “down with your clothes then”. He is not even surprised. He holds her gaze while fumbling with his belt. She steps up, her hand glides in his pants, he can feel her cool dry fingers touch his cock and -

he skeets and-

next thing he finds himself reluctantly awake, in his flat. On his back in his sleeping-bag, sticky and wet (cold wet, that is) now and very uncomfortable. He sighs in disbelief. A wet dream about Carrie Mathison - as if he was fucking 15. Not even a raunchy one, boobs and ass and Kamasutra style, just words, one of their endless arguments and a tiny bit of touching…

This has to stop. Immediately. Yesterday he caught himself driving by that liquor store. Just to check it was close to her home (yeah it was.) What if she had seen him?

He drags himself out of bed, crams sleeping-bag and underwear into the washing-machine with furor, starts the program, retreats to the shower. Floods himself in cold water until he is shivering. The sleeping bag will take hours to dry, so there goes this night’s sleep. The fact he never stocks liquor at home keeps him from drowning his self-contempt in a bottle right now. Another one of his golden rules. In his line of job sobriety and reliability are the biggest assets. Getting pissed for release is only acceptable for PTSD-mindsets.  
He considers driving over to Langley to get some work done but he definitely has to read himself the riot act first.

 _Fuck you asshole. Just because she was - she is an easy lay doesn’t mean she’s a lay for you. Neither in the near nor the distant future, hear me?! She is a colleague, you had her once, not that she remembers, that’s once too often, she is no go area. She is fucking a terrorist, so much for her choice of sexpartners._  
_There are, what, 8 ½ million people in Washington and Baltimore Metropolitan Area. Say half of them female, that’s 4.250 000. Say half or even only a third of them, say, between 25 and 40. Make it 22 and 45. So approximately 1.5 million women to get between the sheets - if you ever buy any that is. But not her._  
_No more fantasizing about unreachable Carrie Mathison. Back to the professional swing of things, compartmentalize, stow it away and consider her forgotten!_

When Carrie arrives at the office the next morning, Quinn is already in and has completed the red tape tasks he had been avoiding for days. There are dark shadows under his eyes but he is in surprisingly good spirits, all calm and Zen-like.  
_Seems his ER nurse has been giving him double night-shifts. I wonder what she looks like…Not that I really want to know…_

***

So life is easy and tranquil at Langley. At least as far as tensions among colleagues, sexual and otherwise, are concerned. They have other fish to fry. The whole Nazir-plot is about to blow up.

Enemy number one has tricked them, Roya has spat on them, Brody defects from here to there and back. Demanding times culminating in Carrie taken hostage. Quinn has no idea how she managed to escape but he is fucking glad to see her reappear, visibly deranged, blood on her face, the look of a lost animal in her eyes. He covers her in his jacket and leads her away. Stubborn Carrie however can’t let go, she insists Nazir is still around, suspects Galvez, takes him down, completely out of control. Galvez, wounded badly at Gettysburg, only here to help her and she attacks him, paranoid Carrie taking over again. Fucking a terrorist while suspecting her own… that woman is a nightmare.

She doesn’t back down. She goes back inside that maze. She finds Nazir who gets himself killed.

This time Quinn takes no chances. He, in person, drives her home. She is clearly in a distraught state, ranting on but still not explaining how she could escape their enemy number one. Quinn makes a mental note on the omission.

She is in a parallel universe right now, desperate to sort things out without letting Quinn in. She is so fucking tired and something else comes crouching in. About Brody… he killed Walden to set her free, so it was a noble deed. But he wanted to do it. He enjoyed it. She could hear it in his voice. She remembers Tom Walker, the other sniper, Brody’s friend, trustee, co-prisoner taken out by… Brody?  
_Don’t trust him he’s a pathological liar. I don’t - I do - do I love him? Or is it just - the excitement? But wouldn’t it mean I have to love him even more now instead of having doubts? He killed for me. God I miss the times of uncommitting, easy sex with a handsome stranger. Would keep my mind from derailing._

As they pass the liquor store - _the_ liquor store - she demands out of the blue: “Quinn, stop here. I could do with a drink.”  
_Shit._  
“OK.” He pulls up, weighing the options in his mind: Will she remember if the jigsaw parts connect - he and the whisky rack? Or will she rather remember if a part is omitted too obviously -  if he stays in the car, that is?  
Jesus, she looks so shaky he can’t let her go inside on her own.

Inside the store, he stops way before the whiskey rack. Strategic decision.  
“So, Vodka for you?”, he asks and she nods, “sure, why not, Vodka is great”. That was easy, he grabs a bottle of the Finnish stuff and smiles at her, she gestures approval.

Next they pass the whiskey rack. Carrie stops in her tracks and Quinn gets cold inside.  
“I’ll get one of those, could you please hand me the Talisker?” she asks. It’s not necessarily a trap, the bottle is up on a higher shelf so she can’t reach it herself. He obliges, high-strung and intent to hide it. She watches his moves. Heavy silence.  
_Shit, she knows._  
She looks at him, concern in her face. He forces himself to breath levelly. She asks in a funny voice: “Quinn, have you ever been here before?” but he is prepared, oh yes he is, so he answers steadfast and unperturbed “Not that I know of, it’s not exactly on my route - why?” and gives her on open, ingenous glance.  
“Do you like Bushmill’s?”, she goes on.  
“Don’t know”, he lies with a shrug, “why?”, and she seems to relax, gives him a tiny smile and says, “Never mind… mixed you up with someone… ridiculous idea really” and he smiles back good-naturedly, not asking any more questions, no good tempting fate, right…  
They keep standing between these bottles for some more moments and he desperately wants to get her out, so he says: “So you are getting the Vodka AND the whisky?”. She nods and they head for the cashier’s, all easy, relaxed, smiling at each other, Carrie looking forward to her drinks and pretty relieved he didn’t lecture her on her Galvez-mania, Quinn even more relieved he got over this trial.

They are quite a sight, the expressive blonde, small and lively, and her handsome companion, so the cashier looks up. It’s that sumo-wrestler-look-alike-again, a great romantic at heart, he knows Carrie of course and has a vague idea about her ailments and is completely taken aback to see those two together, she wears the guy’s jacket, now isn’t that a nice protective gesture, and all of a sudden he remembers that evening back then and beams: “Oh my God, you two… so you have patched up, and it all started in my little liquor-joint two years ago, who would have thought”. It is the moment of truth dawning upon them: He knows she knows and she knows he knows and what is worse, she knows he lied and he knows she knows. In short: Too much knowledge on a difficult day.

They walk out in silence, avoiding each other’s gaze. Quinn carries the bottles and puts them gingerly in the back seat. They get in, their eyes meet briefly - and they burst out laughing. An explosion of mirth, of awkwardness and embarrassment. A displacement laugh, as psychologists call it, but also a heart-felt proof of self-irony.  
 “Guess that’s why they warn you about one-night stands”, Carrie gurgles and Quinn feels a pang inside, realizing this is not about one-night stands or professional standards, this is about a woman who can make him guffaw in the most embarrassing situation. A woman who gets to him. He sobers up immediately. He starts the car and hits the road. Her laughter trickles out.  
“You were hot”, he says, while at the same time she utters “It was fucking hot.”  
_So we agree for a change._  
After a beat she adds: “The guy running things… If I had known…”  
“… you would you have given the half moron some booty calls?”  
She giggles but doesn’t answer.

The terror of the last days seems a world away. It feels strange, it feels good. She tries to remember that night. He was what she needed back then. Was he annoying like in real life, she smirks… she can’t remember. She only remembers her emotions. It felt good.  
_Don’t let it go to his head._  
“You are a proficient liar, Peter Quinn”, she states, “is that why you hate Brody so much? Smelling the competition?”  
_No because he fucks you. And because he is a jerk._  
“Right, my white lie to spare us some embarrassment is pretty much in his league…” He sounds pissed off.  
_No guy likes being caught red-handed… serves him right._  
“I mean, how many dead at Gettysburg?”  
They sit in silence.

They arrive at her place. She gets out.  
“Hey”, he calls after her, intent to ease the tension, “you got my number for that call” and gives her a wink, and she smiles at him for a precious fraction of a moment.  
He watches her open the door and disappear inside. Shit, he should have invited himself in for a drink… he could stay close to see if Brody shows up…  
_No. No more observations. Consider her forgotten._  
  
As he drives off, he checks the rear-mirror and notices the two bottles peacefully lying in the back. He is delighted. As expected, his cell-phone rings before he has made it down the road. He doesn’t answer but reverses the car.  
There’s just this other thought. If he gets the girl, he can’t kill Brody. He is wicked, but not _that_ bad. He can’t take the girl _and_ kill the guy.  
_Ah stop fooling yourself asshole, you don’t want to do it because she might find out. The strain to lie to her eye to eye, day in day out. You don’t want to do it because you’d have to disappear straight away. Mission accomplished, operator off, bye-bye Carrie never to be seen again._  
It’s an order, asshole. You wanna deny an order? Jesus, are you that far gone?!… You need a nice catchy phrase… something about how he has kept his part of the deal or that kind of shit and deserves to live on… how you are the guy killing bad guys and pretending he is none. You sure you wanna let that fucker live?

So hardly five minutes after he took off, Quinn rings Carrie’s door-bell.  
“My, that was fast”, he says, catching grin from one ear to the other, “aren’t you a demanding lady!”  
“It’s just, I forgot the liquor in your car-“  
“Admirable strategic planning...” he states all playful und light and produces the bottles from behind his back, “have I mentioned I love you for your brains?”  
_Shit. I said it and, surprise, the world doesn’t stop._  
Carrie takes the bottles and puts them on a little sideboard in the hall. He steps up immediately to make sure she can’t ask him to leave, enwraps her in a swift movement and kisses her. A booty call kiss: cocksure and surprising, an attack on her defenses and her yearnings. Teasing, trying, tender. His tongue rounding up her mouth, his lips dabbing her lips, his hand caressing her hair and her neck.  
It washes her away. She sighs and leans in on him.  
“OK Quinn, as you are already here…”  
The shiver rippling through her body gives her away though.  
He feels her breath against his neck and is madly, deeply content.  
This time he’ll look into her eyes.  
This time they’ll both remember.  
He draws away and smiles at her, relieved he sees his desire and arousal mirrored in her eyes.  
Time to shut down their brains for the rest of the night.  
Time for a new chapter in their book.  
Oh and he _has_ to make her give up that one-night-stand-nonsense…

 

\- END -

**Notes for the Chapter:**

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